My Manic and I
by MollyElfie
Summary: My Manic and I - Sherlolly Fanfic - Based on the lyrics of Laura Marling's song 'My Manic and I' - When Sherlock turns back to drugs as a resolution to the loss of his friends, his boredom and his manic mind, Molly is the only one left to help. As Molly tries to turn Sherlock back into himself again, has a new side to their friendship shown? or is that just the drugs talking?
1. Chapter 1

My Manic and I

Chapter 1

Sherlock had not been himself since the fall. Some days, he'd just sit there and think, other days he would be gone, and, on very rare occasions, he would get very strange; If you can imagine Sherlock any stranger. Sherlock's 'strange' was, somehow, 'normal'.

He would make coffees and teas, talk to me, watch crap TV, discuss the weather, watch football, get the shopping. It almost felt like he _had_ died when he'd fallen off St. Bart's.

This behaviour had started several months into him living at my flat. He had been away for a couple of days. I knew something was wrong, immediately. First, he didn't perform one of his 'stroll-through-the-door-at-god-knows-when-o'clock ' rituals. It was 9:30 at night and I had just started to drop off; It had been one of those days at work where I had spent half the day thinking about how cosy my sheets were and the other half worrying about Sherlock ( I had to remind myself that it was a special occasion when those two objects didn't appear together in my daydreams.); he came through the door very quietly and put his coat down with a quiet '_flump'. _The next thing he did was almost _too _weird.

I heard my bedroom door creek, slowly open, then Sherlock peered around the door and I could _feel_ his blue eyes boring into my side. When he knew for certain that I was there (which was, again, surprising behaviour for Sherlock, as he'd normally be able to deduce that I was there from 'the age of the coffee stain on the rug') he walked over to my bed and sat down. He sat there for a couple of minutes, rambling, quiet, unintelligible nonsense to himself. Then, Sherlock reached a hand up to my exposed shoulder and stroked it gently with his thumb. I tried to control my heartbeat desperately. If he couldn't hear it then he definitely wasn't himself.

He got up leaving me 'sleeping', I heard him stop at the door and say the only real words I had heard from him in several days;

"I'm sorry Molly"

This was totally and utterly abnormal. I had been living with Sherlock for 5 months now, and he had never come to check on me after I had fallen asleep, acknowledged my personal feelings or privacy and he had NEVER; I repeat NEVER; said 'sorry', especially without being asked to or without good reason. Something was up and I was going to make sure I found out what.

The next morning, I became the detective. I was so filled with desperation to find out what made him act that way, so driven with a deep-down-feeling that something was definitely wrong, that when I got up the next morning I creeped into the living room, where he was lying, almost unconscious, on the sofa. I searched through the pockets of his coat.

Nothing.

As I put the coat back, I somehow managed to trip over my own feet. I fell hard on the floor, hands first. I looked up, expecting to see him looming over me. However, I doubt he even stirred. He looked so relaxed sleeping there. So normal. Like a child, so at ease.

After he had fallen, he had worn a constant look of stress on his face, He very rarely ate or slept and was becoming thinner and more disheveled by the day. I worried about him constantly. The worst thing was that there was nothing I could do. If I tried to cook him a meal he would complain and say that it was useless him eating, 'a waste of time'. It bought me to tears somedays, seeing him this way. I wish I could just walk over to 221b and tell John and Ms. Hudson and Mycroft. Shout it from the rooftops if I could.

I wanted to know how he had coped before anyone like John had been there for him. I suppose, maybe this was what it was like before any of us. Maybe he just ate when he wanted to, slept when he wanted to and did whatever he liked. To be honest, it wasn't like anyone had ever stopped him; no matter how much John and Ms. Hudson tried to suppress his habits. Somehow, I felt there was a difference. The usual sharpness in his eyes was blunted. There was a longing there. I knew John had something to do with it. He needed a friend. I know that I am there for him, but Its not the same. I'm just the quivering, mousy, pathologist, who can't control her feelings and has thin lips and small breasts. I do love Sherlock, not just in a girly, jelly-knees way, but I have a crush on him for a reason. He is a good man and special. Sometimes you do feel like punching him square in the face, but that is part of who he is and I'd hate to see that change.

I thought all this as I stood over his silent body. It was like I was back at the morgue again. For a second the thought that he may have died crossed my mind, but I saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest against his slightly loose dark-blue shirt. He had lost at least another pound in weight while he'd been away. His dark curls fell across his face, they had grown slightly longer in the time he'd been living with me and he refused my many offers to cut his hair. His cheekbones were ever-more prominent as his gaunt face caught the morning light seeping in from behind the curtains.


	2. Chapter 2

His left arm was hanging over the back of the sofa. He had the sleeve rolled to the middle of his upper-arm, showing of the definition of his muscles and some of his bones.

As I looked more closely at his arms, I saw a couple of light bruises around his elbow area. I then saw that in the centre of each bruise was a hole. Small, but still a hole.

This got my brain whirring. Suddenly, the memory of my first meeting with John after Sherlock's funeral came flooding back.

We had met in Speedy's cafe, two weeks after Sherlock's burial. We just had coffee and talked about things. John was coping rather well. He still wore an obvious look of bereavement on his face, as did Sherlock, but he was getting on with things. Meeting girls, going out and trying to fill in every hole that Sherlock's antics had left, with a normal life. His 'stress disorder' had come back. I suppose it was to be expected, what with the absence of the usual danger in his life. However, I remember quite prominently the conversation moving onto Sherlock.

"So...what was living with Sherlock like then John?" I asked, acting as if I had no Idea.

"Well, I bet you could imagine," He answered, looking into his coffee. A smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth.

"He was forever moving, thinking, shouting orders like; 'GET MY PHONE JOHN!' or 'MRS HUDSON! WHERES MY SKULL!?'. He was as irritating as a rash, but it was exciting to have him there."

We both looked at each other with thoughtful expressions, remembering Sherlock. we took a sip of our coffees before John said; with a look I'd seen in Sherlock's eyes so often;

"He was my friend Molly."

I had no idea how to comfort him. Knowing he was alive was so painful right now. So all I could do was reach across the table and say;

"I know."

We sat in silence for what felt like an hour, until John said something so surprising that I nearly squirted my coffee at him.

"Did you know Sherlock used to do drugs?"

I had to go over what he had said in my mind 3 times before I could reply.

"W-what...Really?" I blurted out

"Yeah, thats exactly what I thought when I found out, " John said, laughing.

"I think it was so he could cope with his own mind, you know." He continued.

That made sense. I had wondered how someone coped with a brain like that. So, It turns out that drugs was the answer. For some reason I was now so interested in the details of Sherlock's past drug abuse that I almost forgot about his 'death' completely.

"So, when Sherlock was 'on drugs', what do you think he took?"

"He told me once. He said that it he mostly smoked weed and took other depressants, because they slowed his brain down; or something; but he said that he tried Heroin for a small period of time, when everyone was fighting at home."

Talking about this seemed to take John's mind off of Sherlock's death as well. I had never thought of Sherlock as a damaged child. Well, everyone has their secrets. Especially Sherlock.

I came back to reality, realising what I was possibly staring at. Had Sherlock really gone back on drugs? I needed to find out more. Then, I remembered that I worked at a morgue and had stared at and deduced the symptoms of hundreds of victims of drug abuse, and I knew the symptoms off by heart.

As this was the morning after, and he hadn't died of an overdose; Thank God; It would be hard to know for certain, but I still had some evidence to go off on. He was asleep, for one. John had told me he took depressants, and this was a very common side effect - fatigue - as Sherlock wasn't one for sleeping unless completely necessary, this was something. Secondly, the marks on his arm - possibly Heroin needles - like John had told me, but that had only been used once or twice when; "everyone was fighting at home",

I suppose that he might have used it to cope with the loss of all his friends.

I looked around the flat for any other possible clues. Then I saw all the cigarettes lying around the sofa. I knew that Sherlock had gone back to smoking, pretty much the day of the fall, but there were double the amount of cigarettes lying around the flat and he normally used an ashtray. I picked up one of the cigarettes and sniffed it. Jesus. That oh, so familiar smell of Uni parties. Weed.

Okay, So, Sherlock was back on drugs. Great. Now I knew why he had comforted me last night, I was half-hoping that it was some sudden realisation of his affection for me; but no it was just the drugs talking.

As I pulled the joint away from my nose, _that _voice startled me;

"Molly? What are you doing?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

He was standing there, tall as anything. His face readily pressed from his slumber, curled hair stuck to his cheeks, his shirt sleeve was still rolled up past his elbow, and the rest of his shirt hanging out of his trousers in odd places and undone quite a way down his chest. I could see his boxer shorts above his trousers and he wasn't wearing any shoes. God this was distracting. I had both forgotten how to speak and forgotten about my previous revelation. Once I gathered my thoughts back together again, I realised I was staring and still holding the joint of weed. I dropped it and closed my mouth. We continued to stare at each other for another couple of minutes before he asked me his previous question again. This time I noticed the slur in his voice.

"Molly wha' are youdoin'?" he blinked widely and rubbed his hands against his eyes. I realised I had never seen Sherlock like this before. I knew that he was still recovering from the side effects of his drug abuse last night, but I had always wandered what he was like in the mornings, I had imagined, but... Unacceptable thought, Molly.

Okay, I needed to answer him this time.

"Um" That was the best I could conjure at this particular moment.

"Why were you sniffing my cigarettes?" he asked, obviously annoyed and curious.

"Um, I was..." I could see that he wanted a proper answer.

"Iwasjusttryingto...to..." No, not good enough obviously. So, I took a deep breath and said;

"Okay, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I was worried about you, I was trying to find out why you were the way you were last night. I'm Sorry." Well, that wasn't hard, but I hadn't found out how he would take it yet.

"Last Night? What, Wait, What?" Sherlock said, confused. Sherlock, confused, this was new.

"I thought you were asleep when I came home." He continued.

"Yeah, I had just dropped off, I was going to sleep, but I knew something was up when you...well when you..."

"When I came into your room." He said this to himself. He was angry with himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. He took a sharp intake of breath and suddenly seemed more alert.

"What did you find?" he asked. He was back on the ball now, he knew I had been searching for something and it wasn't going to be many other things than drugs.

"Well, I, Um, I found some things." I didn't know how to tell someone that you had found exactly what you were looking for and that you knew that they were on drugs. That would just seem rude.

"Molly, did you find out that I'm on drugs?" He was breaking this inquisition down for me. He knew I was too polite to accuse, all by myself.

"Yes." I said hesitantly. Waiting for him to go off on one about how I shouldn't be snooping around his personal belongings and accusing him of taking drugs.

"Well then, I'm glad we got that sorted. Is there anything else you'd like to know?" he asked, moving to sit down in the newly dubbed - 'Sherlock's Chair'.

"Why?" I asked in return, sitting down on the sofa where he had been lying previously.

I needed to know. Obviously it was to cope with his mind, but that would never just be it. Not with Sherlock, anyhow.

"Why?" he repeated "Well, firstly, I'm bored." He said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Secondly, I'm dead to the world. Thirdly, I think that maybe if I was a little bit more like...well, like you...I wouldn't be in this situation." Sherlock's eyes were so full of truth, so full of a longing, that for the first time, I could have sworn that they turned slightly glassy for a moment. Well, If his didn't my eyes certainly did. A solitary tear trickled down my face as I looked at the floor. I felt so cruel, keeping him cooped up like this, like keeping a wild animal in a cage. Of course he was going to blame this on himself. He was a selfless man, underneath all his 'sociopath' nonsense, he justified people's death, saved people lives and stopped criminals for a living. Of course he had a heart. I remembered why I loved him so much. I needed to comfort him, I had no idea how to comfort someone like Sherlock. When my other friends were sad, I just gave them a hug or made an attempt at a joke (which they normally laughed at because they were so bad) or something to help their mood.

A couple more tears trickled down my face and then Sherlock spoke.

"Molly? Why are you crying?" he asked, trying to peer at my downcast face. I looked up at him, and his face was so concerned. I took 3 deep breaths and answered.

"I can't control you Sherlock. I don't know you that well. I would love to be able to comfort you, but I have no idea how." I wasn't expecting a response. I didn't particularly want one, but, I had heard John say, on multiple occasions, that "Sherlock will outlive God, having the last word", so I prepared myself for one.

For a long time, I didn't get a response. I wasn't sure that the next words he spoke were a response, or meant for me at all, I think they were some sort of reassurance for himself.

"I'm fine." He whispered as he walked off towards the kitchen counter and put on the kettle. He sat down and I carried on the making of the coffee. Black, two sugars, just how he liked it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Weeks went by and I grew accustomed to the faint and persistent smell of weed that seemed to be taking over my flat. We had come to some sort of mutual agreement that any mess that Sherlock left behind, was his to clean up, so that I wasn't left with a knee-high pile of cannabis joints, and Lestrade at my door. As Sherlock clearly wasn't going to stop drugging himself any time soon, I decided to occupy myself with working out when it was most likely that I would come home to find him as high as a kite, and watching the last bit of the footy on the telly. I soon discovered that Sherlock would have an 'off-day' when he disappeared for a couple of days before. He always seemed to be away for the same amount of time. 2-3 days. These, so called, 'off-days' weren't as often as I'd initially thought. When we had our little chat, the first time it happened, I thought I would be coming home every day to find Sherlock wacked-out on the sofa, but apparently not. It seemed though, that Sherlock would get very solemn, a couple of days before his great disappearing act. He would just sit there, unmoving, staring into oblivion, drinking coffee and not sleeping. It was almost like he was somewhere else; in spirit. Maybe Sherlock could do that. Transport his mind elsewhere, while his body stayed in his armchair.

4 weeks into Sherlock's drug abuse, I decided to speak with him. Obviously I was worried; having a drug addict in your flat wasn't the most relaxing thing; but recently I had noticed that Sherlock hadn't eaten or drunken a single morsel of food or drink, in two weeks. Every time I went into work I was half expecting to see him lying in the morgue; and me having to explain to the whole world why Sherlock Holmes had been pronounced dead, twice, and why he seemed to have died of malnourishment and a drug overdose at my flat.

"Sherlock?" I shouted from my bedroom, as I finished getting dressed.

"What?" he answered from the living room. His voice was hoarse and tired.

"Could you come here please."

"Okay." He replied, now leaning on the frame of my bedroom door. I seriously thought that if he put anymore pressure on that side of his body, he would simply snap in half. He had gotten so thin that he was barley recognisable. His expensive, _Dolce&Gabbana _shirt_, _was so big now, he looked like he'd borrowed it off of his dad. I had bought him new trousers and belts, however I couldn't even afford a button on a shirt that he would like, let alone the whole thing.

He was ghostly, pale and somehow always look sick and clammy. If we were in any other circumstance, I would rush him straight to hospital and we would hear no more about it. He would go into rehab and would have a tube stuck down his throat to make sure he filled out. However, this was an impossibility, so I just had to try and make him better, the best I could.

I patted the space next to me on the bed and said, "Sit." We had become more at-home with each other since our heart-to-heart, a couple of weeks previously. We had both learned to listen to each other in turn, and be respective of one-another's thoughts. This was a bit of a break through on my part; I am very proud to say.

Sherlock walked over to the bed and sat down next to me,

"Why have you asked for me Molly?" he said quietly, looking at me with _those _eyes.

"We need to talk." I replied, rather bluntly. Apparently my bluntness sparked something in Sherlock and told that him that I was being serious. He straightened up and asked me "Okay, what about?", in that curious tone. His eyes begged me to get on with it. So, I got to the point.

"You need to eat Sherlock. I don't really care if it's just a piece of bread a day, or half a biscuit. You just need _something_. You're wasting away in front of my eyes, I'm worried that I'll come home to find you dead. Properly dead, and that I'll have to explain to everyone why the world's only consulting detective has been pronounced dead; yet again; at _my _flat." For some reason, my honestness had triggered something in Sherlock that I hadn't seen in a long time. A smile. It made my heart flutter. For a second his eyes regained there sharpness and vitality. I must have looked so confused and worried, so, to ease the tension, I smiled back.

"Thank you Molly; and yes, I will, I will try." He placed a hand on mine and walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**_1 and a half weeks later_**

The day had been long and tedious. I'd only been at work for 3 hours so far, but it felt more like 6. There weren't any new cases for me, so I just sat down and spent my time sorting through the waist-deep, sea of paperwork that I had meticulously avoided doing since last Christmas. As well as paper work, I spent a long time chatting to the new girl that was starting, in the coffee room. I was no longer the youngest! Hooray! It was nice talking to someone who constantly avoided anything along the subject of Sherlock Holmes and boyfriends. It really had become more than tedious. She hadn't gotten wind from any of my other co-workers about my previous infatuation with the world's only consulting detective, and how I had worked with him on numerous occasions, only to find him to be 'a fraud', "Oh her heart was broken!" would be how Emma, the gossip of the morgue, put it.

I went to sit back down at my desk to finish off the rest of the omnipresent paperwork. I sipped my coffee slowly before I started (I am an expert in procrastination), as I was doing so, my desk phone rang. This never normally happened unless I was completely oblivious to some meeting that David (the self-appointed 'boss') had arranged, out of the blue, and I was at least 10 minutes late. I knew that wasn't the case, as half the morgue were all 'sick'.

I picked up the phone to see who was calling me. The line sounded like it was breaking, up, I was about to put it down, when I heard a big CRASHH! and a voice sounded from the noise,

"Molly?" it was Sherlock.

There was another crash, and some more static noise, then I heard his voice again. It was _very _slurred. I could only just make out him saying;

"Molly? Molly, I was-" the phone cut out completely and the line was dead. I hopelessly called back into the soundless 'beep'. Oh God. What had happened? He was obviously drugged up to the nine, so I needed to get round there quickly. I grabbed my coat and bag, completely forgetting about the paperwork. That could be done another day; there were more important things to worry about at the moment.

I sprinted out of the door, knocking past David, who was waiting at the vending machine;

"What do you think you are doing Molly Hooper!?" he called after me as I sped away, I just had time to call back to him the best excuse I could muster, while my brain was a mish-mash of Sherlock dying and Sherlock being alive;

"Family emergency!" I caught him shaking his head out of the corner of my eyes, and then I was gone. It was a rubbish excuse, he knew full-well that my family all lived in Dorset.

When I got past the doors of St. Bart's, I ran straight for the bike-shed; this would be the quickest way home by far. I couldn't run very fast, for very long and I didn't own a car, a taxi would take me the long way round; so this was my only option. Thank God I knew the quick way, which I had discovered when I had been particularly late for work after a severe hangover.

I fumbled with the lock on the bike and pulled it's rusty frame from the shed. I quickly hopped on it, racing my way out of the car park and down the street. As I stormed down roads and alleys, sharply avoiding people and other obstacles, the penny started to drop.

What if this was the day? What if I found him curled up on the floor, hard and cold? I don't know how I'd cope with that. Okay, stop Molly, he is _not _going to die today. My bike sped up as I repeated this mantra to myself. In five minutes, I had reached by flat.

I jumped off my bike, haphazardly crashing it to the floor, abandoning the lock, and took the steps to my front door 3 at a time. Wow, there were a lot of steps.

Finally, after what seemed like millennia, I reach my door. I slowly opened it, bracing myself for what I was going to find on the other side. As I peered into the hallway, everything seemed normal. I had half-expected to see the house completely burnt to a cinder, but all seemed fine until I heard a crash and some moaning. I raced round the corner, to look at my living room. It looked like a bomb had gone off in there. A Sherlock shaped bomb, that was now lying, like an injured animal, in the middle of my carpet, having just fallen off the sofa.

I ran over and grabbed him by his arm and waist, hoisting him up onto the sofa.

I sat down next to him. He had been doing so well; eating regular meals, sleeping every other day, drinking; but now, look at him. A helpless druggie, splayed out on my couch, floppy, and his head resting on my shoulder. This was _not _the Mr. Sherlock Holmes I knew.

I sat next to him, trying to keep him next to me, and off the floor. This was a much harder job now he had piled back on the pounds. He had started to drool. How attractive. I was patting his head when he spoke;

"Hello Molly," he smiled at me. It was like having to babysit a very big and sleepy child.

"Hello Sherlock," I replied, looking down at him, I felt like a disapproving teacher.

"I foned yoo," He said, very proud with himself, trying to straighten up, but falling back onto my shoulder.

"Yes you did." I replied, allowing him to just say whatever he wanted to. I wanted to see how much of a normal conversation I could have with _this_ Sherlock.

"I madeyoudiner." he said, pointing, lazily over to the kitchen counter, where I saw a pan, lopsided and overflowing with baked beans and a plate with some bread and tomato ketchup on it. It looked like I'd tried to train a monkey to make me food.

I laughed. It was such a good feeling. I hadn't laughed at or with sherlock in nearly 8 months now. He looked at me questionably, obviously thinking that his food preparation was worth a Michelin Star, not a giggle.

Sherlock got up and staggered towards the kitchen counter. He was trying to bring me my food. I let him, until I saw him trip over a chair he'd knocked over previously and fall very hard on the floor.

"Ow," he moaned. I rushed over as he tried to get up again.

"Oh no you don't," I said as I managed to pull his arm around my shoulder and wrap mine around his waist. I hadn't realised until now, how close I had been to Sherlock, and my heart hadn't given way to it's usual fluttering, which happened whenever I was unusually close to him. I was very proud of myself.

I walked Sherlock into my bedroom, and placed him on the bed, where he immediately fell backwards onto the sheets. I sat down next to him. He had his arm placed over his belly, His shirt was ruffled and undone in random places, untucked from his trousers. He had his eyes closed now, and I noticed how bruised his face was. He had, had quite a bash-up while I'd been away. In between the gaps in his shirt, I could see a few cuts. Then, when he decided to move his arm up to shield his eyes, I saw a patch of blood that had seeped through his shirt from his abdomen. I decided that while he was completely dosed-up, I would take a look.

I unbuttoned his shirt. My heart had started to give in now. I would never imagined that I would, one day, have Sherlock in my bedroom and I would be unbuttoning his shirt. Well, I guess I had imagined it, but under completely different circumstances; Where one of us wasn't as high as a kite, at least.

When I saw the cut, I was surprised at how deep it was. I was trying to think what he could have possibly done that had caused a cut this deep. Well, I guess anything was possible when you were like...like this.

I touched his wound and Sherlock winced and lifted his head to look at me.

"What are you doing?" his voice was less slurred now, he was gradually becoming more sober.

"You're hurt Sherlock. how did you do this?" I asked.

"I don't know." He said, sitting up now, facing me. He was studying my face. I was studying his. For some reason, this made my heart bounce more than having him resting against my shoulder, wrapped round my waist or unbuttoning his shirt. Having his eyes boring into every detail of my face was so unnerving. I most definitely didn't think I was beautiful, but I knew I wasn't ugly, but having someone with a face like Sherlock did, concentrating so hard on your's made you want to cover yourself with a pillow. However, I didn't look away, and neither did he. I took in his cheekbones, they were perfect. Smooth yet sharp, like they had been sculpted from marble. I had an overwhelming urge to touch them. Oh, and his eyes, his eyes. It was dark in my bedroom, I only had my orangey bed-side lamp on, the curtains were closed, but those ice-blue eyes cut through it all. They flitted from my nose, to the strands of hair falling in front of my face, to my lips, to my eyes.

We stayed there for what felt like forever. My heart was racing.

I was about to cut our little staring-competition short, when I felt his hand hold onto mine, gently but with a certainty. He was pulling my hand up to his bare chest, edging closer to me. What was happening?

His nose was almost touching mine now. I wandered when he would stop and simply walk away, like so many times before. Leaving me there. However, He didn't. He kept moving closer. I could feel his breath against my lips now. Then, that soul-destroying, heart-wrenching, beautiful moment happened;

He kissed me.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

It was unlike any other kiss. I had kissed many guys, drunk, sober, high; but this kiss was different. It had emotion. Who knew a kiss could carry _so many _emotions. I felt his destruction, his gentle heart, his loss, his wild and manic brain, his unrequited love for so many things and his apology.

I was overwhelmed. I hadn't even thought to kiss back. So, I did. I returned all his emotions, and showed him mine; how I felt sorry that he'd lost all his friends, how he had blamed this all on him self and I said that I wished I could help. I was so lost in this moment that I forgot one crucial element that almost broke my heart in two;

He was still high.

I tried to tell myself that I had kissed many drugged-up blokes in the past; they had normally tasted of sick and beer; this was different; this was special, I had never known any bloke to kiss like this, even if they were stone-cold sober. I wanted to know how Sherlock had learnt to kiss like this. There was probably some science behind it. To be quite frank, I didn't care. We kept kissing, all it was, was a kiss. I didn't mind, I didn't want to take it further. I had no plans to move on from here. I never wanted this to end.

Apparently, God had other ideas, so we both parted. I could not tear my eyes off of him. I still had my hand on his chest, and I hadn't noticed that his hand was wrapped around my neck until he was gone.

He just walked away. He didn't stumble, he didn't fall, he was sober. Maybe that was why he pulled away. Maybe he realised what he was doing and was so disgusted with himself, that he had to leave. Maybe he was never coming back. I couldn't think about that now. My brain was too scrambled. I just sat there, for the rest of the day, on my bed, and fell asleep.

**2 days later**

I was sat on the couch watching 'The One Show' when he came back.

I had tidied up the day after he left, so it was back to normal. I had used a whole bottle of air freshener to rid the flat of the 'weed' smell. Because I didn't know whether he would be coming back, I tried my best to rid the flat of some of the more disgusting things he'd left behind. I had folded up some of his trousers and shirts, and placed them over the back of his chair. They always lay there, a reminder of how much things had changed; in every aspect of the word. If I thought about him the first time I met him; a gorgeous, frantic, rude, mysterious, genius and demanding young man; Now, he was so different; Quiet, still, sad and tolerable. Of course, he still was mysterious and gorgeous, but all the other things somehow outweighed those points.

When he returned, he was almost a new man. I was expecting, that, as he had been away for his usual 2-3 days, he would be high again. No. This was not the case. He came back, and It was liked I had jumped back in time a little bit. He wasn't what he had been like before the fall, but he was more vibrant than he had been in the past month or so.

"Molly?!" she shouted from the door. I didn't answer, I wasn't surprised, just worried about what was supposed to happen now. How were you supposed to talk to someone you kissed, that probably doesn't remember and evidently isn't in a relationship with you; or normal, for that matter?

He came through to the living room, stood next to the sofa, and took the remote control from the seat next to me on the sofa. He turned the TV off.

Oh, he was back.

"Molly, I need to speak with you." He said, looking straight at me, I was looking straight back at him, dreading what was to come.

He sat down next to me. Knowing that he wasn't going to get a response, he started 'speaking with me';

"You need you to pack your bags."

"What? Why?" I asked, startled. I begged that he hadn't managed to set some crazed friend of Moriarty's (*shiver*) on me.

"We're going away. I've packed mine. You will only need a change of clothes."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

We got the train from Baker Street Station to St Pancreas. That was when he revealed all.

"Where are we going Sherlock?!" I asked for the hundredth time.

He whisked around to face me. He had a different coat on and was wearing a hoodie of mine underneath it, he also had a rugged, 2-day, unshaven face which was remarkably attractive.

"We're going to my family home." He said, a smile creeping across his face. I had to understand what he had just said. He was taking _me_ to his family home. Why? What had I done?

"It's in the Lake District." He questioned. He was obviously waiting for me to say something. However, all I could come up with was;

"What?" I blurted out. I was suddenly angry. I was confused, I didn't know what to say or do or think. He was turning away to walk towards our train. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back to face me.

"Wait Sherlock - Y-you can't come back here - after, after all that what _we've_ been through and just _expect _me to waltz off to the Lake District with you!" I shouted at him. He winced when I said his name; I had forgotten about that. I was breathing very heavily now. I had needed to get that out of my system. All my rage had been building up over the past few days, after we had kissed. I had been so confused.

Wait.

Maybe this is...no. No, It can't be.

I pushed that thought aside, I didn't want to be dealing with anything sentimental right now.

Suddenly though, I was being forced to. Sherlock had seen the anger in my face; I was crap at hiding my emotions; and hugged me. An awkward cuddle from Sherlock Holmes had for some reason, caused me both to cry and laugh. He was laughing too as we pulled away. He had managed to grab my bag during the hug, and was walking ahead of me already.

I followed.

**A couple of hours later**

We had been sat on the train heading for the Lake District for just over an hour and a half now, and hadn't said a word to each other. We were very content; not talking.

Our stop was coming up and Sherlock was reaching to grab our bags. He handed me mine as we stepped off the the train and turned me around to face the beautiful scenery that was to be seen in the distance. Breathtaking.

"Welcome to my home."

**Dusk - the same day**

Sherlock had taken me down to an incredible lake. I still had no idea why I was here, or why I was with him, but I liked it. So I wasn't going to complain. It was truly beautiful here. Silent, except for the sound of birds and I and Sherlock skimming stones on the still, silver lake-top.

We had been outside all day, and I was starting to wander whether we had anywhere to stay. I didn't particularly care. I could sleep here, perfectly soundly.

After we had gotten bored of skimming stones, we sat down on the beach. This was such a strange relationship that we had. Running away together, not speaking but knowing; besides having this weird thing that we had, I wanted to know what _this _was.

"Sherlock, Why _exactly_ did you bring me here?" I asked, I was so much more confident with asking him things like this now.

"Ah," he sighed, "I knew you would want to know eventually."

Of course I would. Excellent deduction there Mr. Holmes.

"I have bought you to the place where I come to get away from it all. On the days that I disappear, I come here."

Oh. So, this is where he disappeared to. That made sense. When I was confused or upset, I turned to the one thing my dad had left behind (his old cigar box - a weird thing to leave in your will, yes, however, it smelt of him and it managed to clear my thoughts) after he had died. Sherlock just wanted to be able to clear his head. He must have been the most sober here. The journey back to London must be the point at which he took the drugs. Entering a place that everyone thought him gone, so many battlefields, so many strong and emotional memories. It was totally understandable.

Sherlock carried on;

"When I was a boy, and things got too much, I would come down to this lake from my house," He was pointing into the distance as he mentioned his childhood home. Among the trees, I saw the most astonishing house. A grey brick, with a promenade and flat green grass. It was a big house, obviously very old; it reminded me of 'Wuthering Heights' for some reason. It had Ivy growing up it's side and you would never imagine that anyone could live there. Apparently, Sherlock could.

"I bought you here so that I could clear my mind. With you."

I had to remind myself that he was utterly sober when he said this. I was so happy. My heart fluttered.

"So...Sherlock," I had been holding _this _question inside for a very long time now.

"The other night, when you phoned me, and-" It was too hard to say.

"Things happened," I continued "I want to know. How much do you remember?"

"I remember _some_ things." He replied, a mysterious look in his eyes. Oh, so he was going to play games as well.

"Okay, I'll put it more simply then. Sherlock, What bits were you sober for?" I asked, slightly more desperate now. I seriously couldn't hold on any longer.

"I was high for the staring. I was sober for the kissing."

Oh Jesus Christ. I had kissed Sherlock Holmes. Actually, now I thought about it, _he_ had kissed _me_. Sherlock had made a move on _me_. Me, the infatuated, girly pathologist, the one that constantly thought of kissing him and him kissing me back. Not the other way. Not in my wildest dreams.

Then why, in God's name, did he leave?

"Why did you leave then?" I asked, not holding back. I didn't think that there was any point now.

"I came here to understand my feelings. Usually they were about myself, or the loss of John or Ms. Hudson, but this time, I needed to think about you. Only you. You had been interrupting my thoughts for the a couple of weeks before the kiss. I didn't understand why, then I realised that it was affection. I acted on my impulses after I had been weakened by the drugs. I still meant what I did, however, I needed to think through how I was to deal with these new feelings. Embrace it or push it away."

Woah. So, Sherlock had just confessed to being 'affectionate' towards me. In Sherlock terms, that meant Lo - could we call it that? I wasn't going to go that far yet. I still had to find out whether he was going to embrace me or push me away. Well, at least he had said that he'd been thinking about me for a couple of weeks previous to the kiss. Oh Jesus, Sherlock had been thinking about me in his waking hours. Wow. I was going slightly dizzy at _that _thought.

"So, what are you going to do?" I asked, worried about the outcome.

I didn't get an answer, just a solitary action. A kiss.

This kiss was much different to the first. This kiss was filled with 'yeses' and 'thank you's'. It was more passionate. I didn't forget to kiss back once. He had his hands cradling my face and neck. I was running my hands through his hair and stroking his cheekbones. This kiss was a lot shorter than the first, But it didn't matter. We had gotten all our answers.

So. This was what we were now. A couple?


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I was lead up the hill towards the house. Apparently, this is where we were going to stay. We were holding hands now. It seemed a natural step after a kiss.

The moon was hanging, low, in the sky as the light dimmed. It was darker among the trees, leading up the hill. However, there was a winding path that lead directly to the back garden of the house; Sherlock had walked this path so many times before, so I was never going to get lost.

We reached the house, and I was immediately struck by how neat and well kept the garden was. There was very modern furniture scattered all over, which was quite a contrast to the backdrop.

"Sherlock? How come everything here is so...new?" I asked.

"Mycroft comes here on Christmas, some half terms and the _very_ rare occasions when him and his wife are together."

I tried not to think about that too much.

We both stood and stared at the house. I was trying to think of Sherlock as a child; chasing or being chased by his older brother. It was quite an endearing thought; a little Sherlock, more innocent, less smart-arse, or, maybe, he was a smart-arse then. I could just imagine, a curly haired, blue-eyed, lanky, tall and curious boy being called in by his mother from the garden.

My thought-track was interrupted by a hand intertwining my own and pulling me towards and inside the door of that magnificent house.

The house was _very _old. The ceiling was high, wooden and had ancient, mahogany beams were running across it. The walls were paneled and the entrance hall's floor was black and white, checkered, marble. Obviously newer than the rest of the house. A Mycroft addition.

Sherlock had put away put away our bags and had left me in the sitting room.

It was large, like the rest of the house, it was also warm and cosy. A very big and medieval fireplace took up most of the back wall. Surrounding the fire was a mis-match of arm chairs and love-seats. On the opposite wall from the fire was a large, arched window. In front of this window was an old chess table, with two high-backed, oak chairs either side. I imagined that Sherlock would have spent many a rainy-day, crouched over that chessboard, desperate to beat his brother.

The walls were paneled, like the hall, but his time were covered with great tapestries that were old and thread bare, much like the carpets that covered the wooden floors. A faded painting; desperately in need of restoration; hung above the fireplace, A woman, very beautiful, elegant and obviously rich. She was the owner of tense, yet inquisitive eyes and a harsh mouth. She was young; about 23; and wore the most stunning dark-blue dress.

I studied this painting until Sherlock reappeared in the living-room. He sat down next to me.

"Who's that woman, Sherlock?" I asked, leaning my head on his shoulder and pointing towards the painting.

"That is Lady Demetria Seraphine Holmes. Or, as I called her, Grandma." He looked, smiling, at the painting.

I could see where he got his eyes and mouth from now.

"Was she on your mother's side or your father's?"

"My mother's. They are very alike; harsh, cold, utterly unforgiving and remarkably strong women. I am most like my mother out of Mycroft and I. We get along well. Well, as well as can be expected from the Holmes family." He looked back at me now, smiling.

"I would like to meet your family one day." I replied, looking back at him.

"But, you've already met My-"

"Not just Mycroft," I interrupted " Your mother, your father, Mycroft's wife, your aunts and uncles, etc."

"I doubt that you'd _like _to meet them. One day it may be a necessity, but not something I would enter lightly into. Remember, 'harsh, cold and unforgiving' and thats just my mother."

Necessity. What did he mean by that? Anyway, before I could wonder any further, I had an overwhelming urge to kiss him. So, I did just that. Tender at first, then more passionate. When we had quite finished, I lay my head on his lap and he played with my hair as I asked him to tell me everything about him that he wanted me to know, and In return I would tell him almost everything about me.

In the several hours we spent talking, I found out that 6 generations on Sherlock's mother's side had lived in this house. I told him that I was born and had lived in Dorset until I was 19; where my family have lived since grandma Ellie, who moved down from the Yorkshire Dales; when I decided to move to London on a scholarship to Kings College. I also found that Sherlock had not passed a single one of his GCSEs because he found them 'tedious and boring', so he just took himself away from school on exam days and sat in the local park. I told him that I had passed most of mine, apart from Geography and PE. I had never had a penchant for either subject (plus the teachers were rubbish). I found that Sherlock home-tutored himself until he was 18, when he left for Oxford, which he managed to get into when he deduced that the interviewer had been working at the college for 20 years and 2 weeks, that he had mild drinking problem and that his wife had just left him. All from the age of the crumbs on his desk, the state of his shirt and the colouring on his lips.

When the moon was hanging high in the sky and we weren't sure what day it was, I decided to get dressed into my pyjamas and ready for bed. It had been a long day.

Sherlock had hidden our cases somewhere, so he walked me through the house, to the spot where they were hiding.

After we had turned a couple of corners and gone through some rather large doors (who knew where Sherlock had put them?!), I came across the most magnificent of all the rooms.

A Ballroom.

It reminded me of a Disney film. There was a pair of sweeping staircases at the centre-back of the room, which led to balconies overlooking the dance-floor. The floor was made of creamy, pristine marble, much like the flooring in the entrance hall, however, this time, the walls were not paneled, but decorated with the most exquisite yellowy-gold wallpaper and there was a great, crystal chandelier hanging in the centre of the room.

I could just imagine the parties held here, when it had been decorated, full of party guests and music. I wanted to jump back in time to when Sherlock's grandmother had lived here, be invited; mingle with the rich and famous. With Sherlock at my side.

I hadn't realised that I was staring, open mouthed at the room.

"Ah..." Sherlock sighed, realising that all my girly, film-like, fantasies had just come colliding into one another. "The Yellow Ballroom."

"Its, s-s-so beautiful." I stuttered.

"Yes, if you like that sort of thing." He said looking down at me. I suddenly felt like a five year old staring at a wedding dress shop, stopping my dad from getting somewhere important.

"Did I tell you I used to partake in dance lessons?" Sherlock asked me, changing the subject so that I stopped gawping.

It didn't particularly help, as I was now gawping at the thought of Sherlock dancing.

"What like, Ballet?" I said, not particularly thinking.

"No, Molly. Ballroom. My mother always had this insane idea that I would one day become some actor or dancer, she said I was nimbler than my brother, and I think that she had a passion for the subjects, so wanted to 'live through me'; so to speak."

"Really? What did you learn?" I asked, chuckling, because I was now imagining Sherlock in a tuxedo, waltzing like someone from 'Strictly Come Dancing'.

"Viennese Waltz, Foxtrot, that sort of thing. I used to be quite good," He said, looking down at me as I tried to stifle my laughter, "Actually," he finished.

"Show me then." I said, crossing my arms across my chest.

"No." Sherlock muttered, abruptly. I thought that I saw the tips of his ears go slightly pink. I'd embarrassed Sherlock. Another accomplishment I could add to my list.

"Go on." I pleaded, nudging him in the waist.

"My last lesson was over 16 years ago. I refuse to dance, Its frivolous. I have deleted most of it from my mind palace."

"Most of it." I repeated. Edging him on. I looked at him through my eyelashes, jutting out my lip; pulling my best puppy face. I had no idea why I thought this would work on a man like Sherlock. However, I had so much to learn, so it was worth a try.

"No, Molly. I am not going to humiliate my self in front of you," He pushed my chin up so that I was looking directly in his eyes.

"Sorry Sherlock, I just wanted to know how it would feel." I said solemnly, walking away from the Ballroom.

Before I could turn a corner, Sherlock ran up behind me, grabbed me, gracefully around the waist and almost carried me into the centre of the ballroom.

"Take off your shoes." He whispered, seductively, into my ear. I blushed slightly and did as I was told.

He placed both of my feet on top of his own. They acted like a platform on which I was to stand. I felt a hand slide around my waist, pulling me closer, and another gripping my hand. My reflex was to place my spare hand around his neck. Just as I did so, we were off.

Spinning, in loose, large circles. If this is what a partially deleted memory of a dance was, what was a whole one? We spun for at least three quarters of an hour, I was resting my head on Sherlock's chest now. We had slowed down and the gentle rhythm was nearly sending me to sleep. When we stopped, we just stood there. I was pressed up against him and he was stroking my hair with the tips of his fingers. He lightly kissed the top of my forehead a couple of times. I looked up at him and he kissed me on the end of my nose, then my mouth, then my jaw, then my earlobes. His hand, that was now placed at the small of my back, slipped down, below my bum and thigh to my knee and hitched my legs up so that he was carrying me and my arm was wrapped around his neck.

"Sherl-" I tried to ask, before I was cut off by one of his elegant fingers being pressed against my mouth.

"Shhh..." he replied. His finger was then replaced by his mouth, pressing violently against mine. I had no idea what was going to happen next, but for some strange reason, all I could think about was the initial reason why we were here;

"Sherlock, I forgot to pack pyjamas." I said feebly, really wondering how I sounded right now, babbling on about pyjamas. My mind had been frazzled, so what else did he expect?

"You won't need them." He replied into my ear as he carried me up the stairs. Sherlock had just flirted, rather dirtily with me. Oh Jesus. My heart was racing double time. I wasn't blushing, I was excited. His heart was racing too. I was in his arms until we reached a bedroom. When he had managed to open the door (somehow) he placed me down on the floor, our lips still melded together. Before I knew it, the door was closed again and I was pressed up against it by Sherlock. I slipped of his blazer and he fiddled with the buttons on my cardigan.

We made it over to the bed. I can't remember exactly how. Nevertheless, the rest is just a bundle of blissful history.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

When I peeled my eyes open the next morning. I was lying in the most beautiful bed. It was white - much like everything else in the room - and extremely ornate. It was painted, because bits were rubbed off here and there, and a darker wood came through underneath. I looked around the rest of the room and it was wonderful. Light filled it up by a single, large, arched window. It was partially blinding. Nonetheless, I could still see that the room was less expensively decorated than the others I had seen. The wall was papered in a Chinese-blue and white, baroque pattern and the floor was painted white, like the bed. By the door, there was a rickety old table with a small, yet beautiful mirror. On the table, was a blue wash bowl and linen cloth. Essentially a very basic en-suite. To the right of the table was a very old chest, the only unpainted, wooden thing in the room.

However, when I turned over, I saw the most exquisite thing; not in the room, but probably in the entire world. A sleeping, currently undisturbed, Sherlock.

He was in a similar state to the first time I'd seen him drugged up, except for an unmistakable blush in his, now fuller, cheeks.

I slid down next to him and played with a stray curl that was hanging down in front of his face. He was truly beautiful. I tried to tone down my smile, because I was worried that it would wake him, somehow. After a couple of minutes of only the sound of our heartbeats and slow breathing, Sherlock's eyelids flickered open.

"Sorry, I woke you." I barely even whispered.

"No, I was awake already. I just liked feeling you next to me." He replied stroking the side of my face, lightly with his thumb. Then, my heart started to flutter.

"Really, Molly you should be over that now." He said, disapprovingly.

"Sorry." I said, looking away from his gaze.

"You don't need to apologise." he responded, lifting my chin up, like he did last night.

"Sor-" I reflexed.

"Molly," he interjected "I care for you very much; do you really think that your over-expressive heart is going to change that or make me think lower of you?"

I shook my head and he pecked me twice on the lips and sat up to get out of bed.

"I need a shower." He stated, running his fingers through his hair.

I got up as well, draping the sheet around me as I did so.

"All right, you go do that. I'll get ready in here."

I stood up and tried to make the bed. Before I even had time to put down the first cover, Sherlock had grabbed me by the wrist and whispered in my ear;

"You're going to join me."

He pulled me out of the room and down the corridor. We looked like ghosts; running around in our sheets.

We were now, fully dressed and in the kitchen, I was buttering my toast and Sherlock was drinking his coffee. We had been in silence for a long time and we were happy doing so. I had been thinking over all the things I'd managed to accomplish in the past few months.

I'd made a list on a scrap piece of paper, and it looked something like this:

Got Sherlock to admit to me being useful

Got Sherlock to stay at my flat for over 8 months

Got Sherlock to listen

Got Sherlock back off drugs

Got Sherlock to like me

Got Sherlock to like-like me

Got Sherlock to think about me

Got Sherlock to have to go away to a quite place and decide whether he wanted to 'embrace me or push me away'

Got Sherlock to kiss me, properly, three times (not my fault!).

Got Sherlock to dance with me

Got Sherlock to tell me things about him

Got Sherlock to flirt with me

Got Sherlock to snog me.

Got Sherlock to have sex with me (well, I must admit, that wasn't all my doing.)

Had naked shower with Sherlock.

The list goes on if you include the_ many _things we did on our first night together as a couple. However, I refuse to divulge any information.

Apart from all of my extremely commendable achievements, one thing was still on my mind. When me and Sherlock were 'doing the dirty'; so to speak; something was up. It was a lovely, enjoyable, blissful experience, however, I felt that something was wrong. It seemed that he didn't know what to do with himself (or me for that matter), he was kind of rigid and awkward once it got pass the kissing. I had come to a conclusion in my head as to why this was, all I needed to do was out-myself and ask. So, I placed the paper in my pocket and looked over at Sherlock. He was sat in his usual 'thinking position', at the small-ish breakfast table.

I didn't want to disturb him.

'No, Molly.' I told myself, 'Just ask.'. I took a nervous nibble at my toast and piped up:

"Sherlock?"

He looked up with only his eyes. Not moving his hands. I had disturbed him.

"Sorry Sherlock, sorry, I disturbed you." I apologised, turning back to my toast.

"Do you remember what I told you about apologising Molly?" he asked me, rhetorically.

"Carry on." He continued, gesturing to me with his hands.

"Um, Sherlock, last night, when, um, when we-" I tried to say, but I was interrupted by an eye-rolling Sherlock, obviously bored with my, very English, inability to mention _that_ word in any sentence.

"When we had sex."

"Yes," I gulped, "well, I just wanted to know, was it your 'first time'?"

Sherlock removed his hands from his chin and sat up straight, his arms were now folded across his chest. One eyebrow was raised and his pupils were fixed, questionably and meticulously on me.

"What if it was?" he asked me, menacingly. He was trying to scare me. It was working.

"F-f-fine." I splurted, still waiting for a definitive answer.

Sherlock got back into his 'thinking pose' and then said, rather nonchalantly;

"Good. I'm glad you deduced that of me. Very good Molly."

Wait. Hold up there. What? Did Sherlock actually just confess to being a virgin, up to last night? Could I really add that to my list? No. Surely not. I had lost my virginity in the first year of uni, you were supposed to have morals and a will of steel to get beyond there without letting it slip. But, to last until his age, with a face like that, and, quite frankly a body like that, that would take _too _much. He'd have to have locked himself away.

However, I knew that Sherlock wouldn't lie to me about something like that. So, there it was. I had taken Sherlock's virginity. Popped his cherry. Jesus. Wow. What. Oh my god.

Lost Sherlock's Virginity.

Level Up. So, did this mean that I was, hypothetically, Sherlock's first 'Girl'. Ugh, what a trivial term. I didn't like Girlfriend or Boyfriend, it didn't suit me and Sherlock, I thought 'Couple' was okay, however, It did seem a bit 'old', it made us sound like an unmarried, 40-something, aging, knitting, pair of losers. What about 'Partner'? A bit Cowboy-y? 'Life-Hostage'? HA! That would probably be rather appropriate in some possible future cases, but, no. What about 'Companion'? That was nice. I suppose I was sort of like a 'John' to him now, I was there for him to confide in and I wanted to help him, whatever the circumstances. I would tell him off when he was acting completely ignorantly; as John had done, so many times; and I would be there to laugh with him when he wanted to. So, Companion it is.

I was thinking through this in my head, then, all off sudden, it came out;

"What about Companion?"

Sherlock, frowned at me again.

"What?" he said.

"Us," I carried on, I was going to tell him at some point, "I was thinking, now that we've..."

I gestured backwards and forwards between me and Sherlock, trying to illustrate that word.

"...and everything, shouldn't we have a title? I mean, I never liked girlfriend and boyfriend, it seems too...young and I thought 'Couple' was too detached and old. I like 'Companion'. What do you think?" I looked at him, waiting for a 'Oh don't be silly Molly!'

"I have never liked titles myself, however, I have never had to use them. Nevertheless, as titles go, I like it. I think it suits us." He stated.

"I agree." I smiled. I was glad that we now had a relationship status. I wasn't going to post it on Facebook or Twitter. No, this was far too precious. Plus, I wasn't that dumb.

I went to go and get myself a jumper as it was getting cold in the kitchen. When I came back, Sherlock was still deep in thought. This was the most 'thoughtful' I'd seen him in a long while. He had stopped thinking about ways to defeat 'the bad guys', like Moran, not long before the drugs kicked in. Now, however, he had been clean for several days and was back on the ball.

I came to sit down opposite him at the table. I rested my head on my arms and sat there silently.

"Molly," He moaned after a couple of minutes, "stop staring at me. It's Distracting."

"I like watching you work."

I hesitated. Was he actually working, or just thinking up insane things in his insane head? Did they include me? Okay...

"You are working aren't you?" I asked, staring at him in the eyes.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, trying to retrace his train of thought.

"Good..." I said awkwardly.

"Actually, Molly?" he asked, after a second, "I could use your advise. What do you think about my dilemma?: Moriarty is dead, as we both know, and he has left behind a gigantic web of underground criminals and one, leading, enraged, admirer, behind. This man, is called 'Moran', he seems to run this whole operation. To take down all of Moriarty's and Moran's web would mean scouring the globe and definitely risking everyone finding out about me (and also, you, Molly) which would mean putting everyone I know and care for, in danger. The added problem is that most of the world believes me to be a fraud and that Moriarty was never real. So, how do I convince the world otherwise and bring down a international, criminal, organisation, without risking my life and the lives of others?"

I bit my lip, crinkled my forehead and made my usual, strangled 'I-will-be-doing-some-thinking-now' noise.

"Let me see..." I trailed off as I stroked the bottom of my lip with my thumb.

So, Sherlock was definitely in a bit of a pickle. Therefore, I was going to do my best to see if my, comparably smaller, brain could help. If only Sherlock had some sort of 'underground, criminal, organisation' - to match Moriarty's.

I glanced over at him and started to explain what I was thinking.

"It _would _be good if you had something to match his under-"

I cut off, because as I was looking at Sherlock I saw that he was staring, intently and open-mouthed at me, until he shut it to gulp. His prominent adams-apple was bobbing up and down.

Seriously, it was quite funny. It looked as if I had just slapped him around the face.

"Excuse me? Can I help you?" I asked, humoring him. He didn't answer; just gulped again. What had gotten into him so suddenly?

"Hello...!" I said, waving my hand in front of his face. Had he blanked out?

"Molly," he said, his voice cracking in places. He straightened himself out before he carried on. "I am led to believe that your 'thoughtful expression' is making me quite aroused."

Oh, so that was his turn-on. My intelligent face. Of course it would be my intelligent face, it was very rare and he liked intelligence. As everyone knows. To be honest, this didn't make me want to kiss him or relieve him of his 'arousal'. It made me want to throw stuff at him.

I picked up the nearest thing to me and lobbed it across the table. I didn't want to harm him, or his perfectly formed face. I just wanted to show him that I didn't want to be treated like some sort of sex object.

However, it sort of happened that the nearest object to me was my butter-knife. I hadn't noticed it in my sudden display of feminism. Luckily Sherlock could move quickly in dangerous situations (he had a lot of practice), so he managed to dodge it and put his arm in front of his face. I had never been good at throwing, so it didn't end up sticking out of Sherlock's arm, however, it still managed to cut and scrape his bare upper-arm (he was wearing his 'disguise t-shirt', a short sleeved cotton top that Sherlock hated and I liked because he never wore it and it showed off his muscular arms). I was honestly quite pleased with myself, until;

"MOLLY?! WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINNK YOU ARE DOING?!" he boomed. I suddenly felt small and very sorry. Like a student being told of by a teacher.

"S-sorry Sherlock." I stammered, looking through my fingers at him. My cheeks were reddening rather quickly.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"No," I replied, "I didn't realise what I was throwing. Sorry."

"Why were you throwing stuff at me, anyhow?" he asked, examining the cut on his arm, "I didn't offend you, did I?"

"Actually Sherlock, you did."

He looked up from his examination and furrowed his brows.

"I just wanted to make it clear that I don't want to be used as either; another one of your 'experiments' and/or some sort of-of-sex toy."

I thought I would try and make myself quite clear. If my actions hadn't been enough.

The glint disappeared from his eyes.

"I apologize Molly. I'm not very good with relationships. As you have, very rightly deduced; I haven't been involved in many of this type or magnitude before, and I will need to work out how to be 'normal' within, 'this' (he gestured backwards and forwards between us). I'm sorry, In advance; if I get anything wrong, or I hurt your feelings, just remember that unlike a lot of things, I don't know much about the matters of the heart. I'm still learning. I will try to make you happy and be 'the perfect boyfriend', but It might take some work. Sorry, again."

I didn't realise, but while he had been speaking, I'd moved around the table and by his side. I was crouching down, next to him, holding one of his hands in both of mine. I pressed my lips to his knuckles. reassuring him.

"Sherlock, I want you to know that you _do not_ - I repeat - _do not _have to be the 'perfect boyfriend'. To be totally honest, I'd hate that more than anything. I've never liked the boys who go around, buying valentines presents or flowers and chocolates from out of the blue and smother their girlfriend with praise and kisses. It is_ way_ too clingy, and would never suit you. First rule of dating; don't try to be anyone but yourself. Maybe there are a few things that could be slightly altered about you, but nothing major. Sherlock, why would I have heart-palpitations at the sight of someone that I wanted to change so much?"

We shared a smile at each other and Sherlock kissed me on the top of my head. We both stood up to exit the kitchen.

"Come on Sherlock, lets get you cleaned up. I can have a look at what that cut on your tummy is doing. I completely forgot about it after you kissed me."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Sherlock had found his turn-on and apparently mine was having him sitting, shirtless, with cuts and bruises all over his torso, on top of a counter while I swabbed them with anti-septic. It was the strangest scenario, however, he had shown me where the first-aid kit was and a reason for him to take off his shirt, so I wasn't really going to throw that opportunity in the bin.

I'd told him to sit on the counter because I needed to be able to reach up to the cuts. Also, it gave him a sort of 'ravishingly-handsome-injured-soldier-' quality and me a 'commanding-florence-nightingale-nurse' persona, which I rather liked.

He winced and moaned, which I retaliated with 'There, there, Sherly, it'll all be over soon.' or, 'Don't be such a wuss.' he hated me treating him like a child. And he especially hated being called Sherly.

I'd finished sterilizing the new wound on his arm and the old one on his belly. The one on his belly, wasn't half as bad as I remembered. It had healed up to half it's size and had a fresh scab covering it. Perfect.

I moved onto his face. Hidden by his untamed, unbrushed and uncut locks. He reminded me of a rather more ethereal version of 'Tarzan'. I was his Jane. I doubt that we would be running around jungles any time soon, however, who knew with Sherlock.

There were a couple of bruises on his nose, cheeks and forehead, so I moved onto them with the special cream. I plodged dibs and dabs on the bruises, trying to look a serious as I could. It was a challenge. I then traced all his scars with one of the anti-septic wipes. Being extra careful to linger along his cheekbones.

I took in his eyes. Next to his cheekbones, they had always been on my list of the things I thought were the most entrancing about his face. I knew before that they were blue. Ice blue, to be exact. Now, looking intensely into them, I noticed that they had shots of white, green and yellow also, was there some lilac hidden in there?

"You have very lovely eyes Molly." I had forgotten that by staring into his eyes, he would be staring straight back at mine.

"You do too." I said. That was a complete understatement. His eyes were the most magnificent I'd ever seen, mine were just a pooey-brown colour. horrible.

"No I don't. I hate my eyes. They are the things I hate most about my entire being. They're too small."

"Who'd have thought it, Sherlock Holmes, being self critical." I chortled.

On hearing my comment, Sherlock reached for the bruise cream that I had put down and dipped his finger in, then he dolloped a large bit on the end of my nose. I of course, returned this action by getting as big of a handful as I could and smearing it all over his face.

We cleaned up (And Sherlock had a shave. I was sad to see the stubble go. It was like an old friend now) and decided to start to gather our things. We were going to leave today because everyone at work would start wonder where I was after two days. I couldn't exactly phone in sick after shouting and running past my 'boss' in the corridor, with a whole other excuse.

I went back to the ballroom to get my shoes. It was even more awe-worthy in the morning. A large window on east-facing wall was flooding the ballroom with magnificent light and it made rainbows dance on the ballroom floor from the crystal chandelier. I stood there for a while until I realised I should be getting on. I then went to try and tidy the bedroom to the best of my ability. I'm not a great tidier, but I was sure that if I did make an atrocious job of it, it would annoy Sherlock so much that he would have to do it for me. Afterwards, Sherlock scoured the kitchen and bathroom while I moved onto packing our things. Our team work had this all done well within an hour and a half. We double checked that we hadn't forgotten anything then donned our coats and scarves, ready for the exit.

We were standing in the Entrance Hall. Sherlock was wearing his blazer and beloved scarf. I had taken the hoodie he wore on the way up and was wearing my faveourite, mustard scarf. It was a nice day, however, layers were essential, as it was definitely going to get warmer as we travelled south, back to London. I hand't thought of this; all Sherlock's idea, obviously.

"I suppose this is where we have to face the real world." I said after a couples of minutes of silence.

"Yes..." Sherlock trailed off, not particularly thinking. We were silent for about another minute. I fiddled around in my pockets and pulled out the list of 'accomplishments' that I had made earlier. Before I could scrunch it back up into a ball and shove it into my pocket again, it was parted, swiftly from my hand and the owner of this hand skimmed over it with his eyes. A smile broke out across his face and a blush flooded mine.

"Very nice Molly." He chortled. I buried my face in my scarf.

"However, you forgot one thing."

I lifted my face from it's hiding place.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Number 17: 'make Sherlock fall in love with you'."

The breath was knocked out of me. I thought I would never properly hear those words. I was prepared not to. I didn't really mind if I never heard them in my life. But now, he had said them, I didn't really know how to handle it. I gasped. My reflexes made me fling my arms onto his lapels, pull him down to my height and press my lips against his in the most violent, passionate way I could manage. I wrapped my legs around his own and pulled myself as close as I could. He dropped the case he was holding and held me at my neck and the base of my spine. We groaned and kissed and struggled with eachother until;

"Just put the bags in their usual place Harrison and bring the car into the dri-"

Sherlock and I stopped, deathly still, in our tracks. So did the person who had just walked through the door. We all looked at one-another, and we all realised who we were staring at.

Mycroft.

Mycroft had just walked in to see his 'dead' brother, doing something which his brother would never be seen doing. Not in a million years. 'Was it really Sherlock?' must be the thought running through his mind right now.

Before I could think anymore, Sherlock had unsoldered our lips and said cheerfully, and unexpectedly;

"Hello Mycroft, Ah, Easter break is it?"

"GET OUT!" Mycroft roared.

And so we did, along with our well kept secret.

* * *

THE END


End file.
